“For how long, though?”
“A considerable distance, sir. Jonesy, back off imaging magnification by point five.”
The multispectral view snapped back to half its size in the center of the display. Beyond the code-patterned section of the slick, a long, continuous streak of oil continued. Drift-adjusted, it pointed dead on toward the underside of New Guinea’s Bomberai Peninsula.
“We were able to maintain the track to within eighty miles of the coast, sir, with no deviation in course or speed. We’ve always known New Guinea to be a prime potential site for the INDASAT hide, and this proves it out. That’s probably where they’re taking her right now.”
MacIntyre studied the time hack at the corner of the screen. “Yesterday evening. That means they’ve had more than enough time to reach the hide and go to ground.”
“But, Admiral,” the intel protested, “at least we now know that Amanda has to be somewhere on that stretch of coast!”
“All too true, Chris,” he replied, leaning on the seat back. “We know that she’s somewhere on the wildest, least-known, most dangerous stretch of coast on the entire planet.”
Crab’s Claw Cape
1700 Hours, Zone Time: August 23, 2008
Amanda remained locked in the Flores’s captain’s cabin for most of the day. Abstractedly, she wondered how long her banishment from the sea king’s presence would last. Her deliberate revelation of how much the task force knew about Harconan’s INDASAT clientele was bound to foment trouble among the “staff,” as it were, and serve as yet a further drain on Harconan’s time and energy. For her next go-round with him she had better be ready to do some contrite damage-control work on her relationship with him.
If he gave her the chance.
If he didn’t, she hoped they’d use the truth drugs. Dying of a scopolamine overdose would be far more pleasant than being dissected alive. Either way, she wouldn’t have much to say about it. Accordingly she rejected the worry and spent the afternoon napping and mentally composing an intelligence report on all she had seen and heard.
There was no clock in the cabin, and in the eternal dusk of the cavern she could only surmise that it was about sunset when Harconan himself came for her.
He looked tired as he opened the cabin door; apparently even pirate kings could have a hard day at the office. “I thought you might like a little fresh air.”
“I would, thank you,” she replied quietly, rising from the cabin couch.
“Then come. I’d like you to meet someone.”
He led her off the ship and across the cavern floor, her silent guard falling in step behind them but holding back a respectful distance.
Harconan guided her into one of the two tunnels at the rear of the cavern, the right-hand one. Close to the cavern, the passage was concrete lined, with lateral tunnels branching off to what must be storerooms and underground barracks. Amanda counted her steps. There were four such laterals on the right at about fifty-foot intervals, and one on the left about a hundred feet in, a crossover she suspected to the other main tunnel. Grilled work lights were spaced out along the ceiling, and the air was cool and damp, smelling of slime and diesel fumes.
Beyond this section the concrete lining ended, revealing bare lava rock walls, and the tunnel began to angle toward the surface, a dot of green light ahead marking their objective. Amanda was surprised at the distance they had to climb.
The tunnel ended in a huge concrete bunker. A massive set of rusted steel blast doors lay on the ground before the entry. The door framing was fractured, showing where high explosives had been used to blow the hinges out of their setting.
Harconan gestured toward them. “When we found this place, these outside entrances were closed and barred from the inside. When they knew their show was playing out, the last survivors of the Japanese garrison must have sealed themselves in as a last gesture of obedience to their orders to hold until relieved.”
“Impressive,” Amanda murmured, looking around.
So were the rest of her surroundings. Red sunlight angled down through the dense stand of areca palms, prehistoric-looking ferns sprouting densely around the bases of their trunks. After the cool of the tunnels, heat lay over the land in a smothering blanket. So did the silence, unbroken save for the stroking of the surf along the flanks of the peninsula and the exotic call of some bird or reptile. The air smelled of charcoal smoke and orchids.
It was as if they had stepped through a magical doorway into some primeval wilderness. Amanda halfway expected to turn around and see a stegosaurus munching on a fern clump. Instead, a tall Melanesian warrior drifted past the overgrown bunker, unashamedly naked save for a koteka penis sheath; his bare feet were soundless. The only jarring note to the primitive image was the all-too-modern FALN assault rifle he carried.
“A friend of yours?” Amanda inquired.
Harconan smiled. “Of a fashion. Come, I want you to meet another.”
They walked on to the southern cliffside of the peninsula to a point where a view could be had of both the sea and the New Guinea coast. There, another Melanesian awaited them, an older man; age had bent him and grayed his wiry hair. He wore the rags of a shirt and trousers, and yet, he radiated an immense dignity: Amanda sensed the leadership and wisdom in him. A very worn but well kept double-barreled shotgun of some indeterminate make leaned against the palm log on which he sat.
He nodded to them as they entered the clearing.
“Captain Garrett, this is my friend and my ally, Chief Akima of the Asmat. His tribes hold this stretch of coast.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Captain,” the Asmat replied gravely in good English, extending a hand.
Amanda accepted the firm, dry handshake. “And I am pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Please, sit.”
Amanda and Harconan accepted a log section across from the older man.
“Chief Akima is also a member of the Morning Star separatist movement,” Harconan continued. “I trust you are acquainted with them.”
“To a slight degree,” Amanda replied, frowning. “I know that the Morning Star movement is a revolutionary group seeking independence for New Guinea from the Jakarta government. I also know that there has been a protracted low-grade guerrilla war ongoing between the Indonesians and the Morning Star movement for decades. I’m afraid that’s all.”
Chief Akima laughed. “Then, Captain, you know more than many, many people. Our people and our fight for freedom have been ignored by most of the world. We call ourselves the Operasi Papua Merdeka, the Free Papua Movement, although the Morning Stars is not bad name. Papua is what we call our land, but we do not mind you to say New Guinea. It is better than what Sukarno named us: Irian Jaya”—the chief’s mouth twisted in distaste—“his ‘victorious hot land rising from the sea.’ ”
“Bapak, would you tell the Captain the story of the Morning Star?” Harconan asked. “It is best heard from your lips.”
“If your lady would be interested.”
“I would be,” Amanda replied. “Very.”
“As you wish.” The chief nodded. “We are not of Indonesia or its peoples. Our skin is not their color. Our ways are not their ways. Our gods are not their gods. Nor do we wish them to be. Papua is our place, our land.”
“In the last century, the Dutch came and planted their flag. But there were never many here, a few hundred. There was little to interest them, and they stayed in their trading posts along the coast, leaving our land to us in peace.